The Smallest Box
by Iffy Jr
Summary: Phil/Clint pre-Avengers/Thor. "Clint does not like Christmas, but his four 'best' friends gang together to make him like it anyway." COMPLETE.


Author's notes: I'm pretty sure this is the second shortest story I've ever written. It took me…what…a day? Maybe two, since it was sorta spread out. Haha. Anyway, it's 8 pages and just under 3,800 words, and was inspired by a super short commix strip: 2am Christmas Eve by rascalParadyne on Archive of Our Own. It's super adorable omg *squeals*  
Anyway shortest authors notes ever have fun :)

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**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine.

**Full summary**: Phil/Clint pre-Avengers/Thor. "Words." COMPLETE.

**Pairings**: Phil/Clint  
**Additional tags/Warnings**: m/m pairing; smut; strong language; pre-Avengers; pre-Thor porn with plot weee

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**The Smallest Box**

Clint sighs as he walks through SHIELD headquarters. Everything is being decorated for Christmas, but they have much more important things to do, like… Well, anything. He does his best to ignore it on the way to Coulson's office, ready to give his report after the latest mission. He just sighs again when he stops in front of his door, though.

The worst thing about being in love is that you're rarely ever loved the same way back, and the worst thing about being in his profession and then being in love with someone also in his profession is that you can never tell anyone. Natasha doesn't eve know. Granted, Clint's only figured it out in the last month and she's been on an undercover mission involving Tony Stark for this whole time, so Clint hasn't really seen her anyway.

The door suddenly opens in front of him, Coulson's eyebrow cocked. "Are you going to come in or just keep staring at the name tag on my door?"

Clint shrugs and goes into the office. He'd usually give some snarky comment, but he's just not feeling up to it right now.

Coulson notices: "Are you doing alright?" he asks. "Did the mission take an extra toll somehow?"

Clint has been doing far too much sighing lately. "No."

"Then what is it, agent?"

"It's stupid."

He cocks an eyebrow again. "I need to know what's on your mind, Clint."

Clint rungs his hands down his face. "I just really hate Christmas, okay?"

Instead of some surprised gasp that Coulson would never give even if he _was_ surprised, he just nods. "Why?"

Clint frowns. "That's more personal, sir."

Coulson nods, finally going to take his seat. "Then let the debriefing begin."

**XxX**

Clint finishes his next mission three days before Christmas, and Coulson tells him after the debriefing that he gets all three of those days off.

"I—what?" he asks. "Have I _ever_ gotten days off?"

"It's Christmas, Barton," Coulson says with a tight smile. "Just because you don't like it doesn't mean that nobody else does."

Clint sighs. "Yes, sir."

"Very good. Now go home, agent. You deserve some rest."

**XxX**

Upon returning home (he lives in a very small apartment that's almost completely empty since he's never there; just a bed and cupboards with some non-perishable foods), Clint is both surprised and annoyed to see that there's somehow been a tree set up—along with four presents underneath with notes that say "Do not open until Christmas Day".

When that day comes, there's a knock on his door as he's simply staring at the boxes, refusing to open them. Clint goes over to it with a groan. If he's being visited by carolers he's going to break out his bow and pick off the ones with bad voices.

It's not, though. It's—He wrinkles his nose up. Natasha, Coulson, Fury, and Hill? Fury is in his usual trench coat getup and Coulson is in his suit, Natasha is in jeans and a heavy coat, and Hill…well, Natasha always has an air of professionalism no matter if she's working or not, but Hill's air of it is washed to the wind the moment she's not doing her job. She's very vibrant, really. She's in red skinny jeans, a red and white striped sweater, and there's a Santa Clause hot on her head. Clint is just in black jeans and his favorite t-shirt (no he does not care that it's a salmon color; as gay as it is, he can't complain, considering).

"Um…" he says as they call come in without a word. "Would it lower my reliability in the field if I said that having all five of us in one shitty apartment with no security makes me very uncomfortable?"

"No," Fury says gruffly, like he'd rather be dead than actually be here. Was this Natasha's doing? She knows why he hates Christmas so much, after all… "It increases it."

"Alright, good. Why are you all here, exactly?"

"It's Christmas Day, stupid," Natasha says. "We're celebrating." She looks over at the tree. "I knew you wouldn't open these without us even if they _didn't_ have notes."

Clint frowns. "Celebrating? Are you sure we're not just walking on thin ice?"

"Don't be such a party pooper," Hill says. She's actually the most outgoing of their five, to be honest. "Here, open my present first."

Clint frowns even deeper, taking it. "These are all for me?"

"Yes," Coulson says. "Natasha told me why you hate Christmas, Clint. It's time to put it behind you."

Clint averts his eyes over towards the door, _willing_ them all to leave. His brother died seven years ago today, and a very dear friend of his (Barbara Morse, who was the "Mockingbird" as a SHIELD agent) died _four_ years ago today. It's a very stressful time for Clint. Everyone is so happy, while he's just…not.

"It's not that easy to say goodbye to people you've lost," he mutters.

"Well, pretend it is for today," Hill says, going over and grabbing up the biggest present in red-violet colored wrapping paper. "Here, here, this one is from me." She shoves it into his hands, and even so, Clint smiles. He doesn't even remember the last time he got a present, let alone a Christmas present.

Clint sighs and sits down on the only piece of furniture he owns beside the bed (a very old, very ugly couch), patting the spots beside him (it's about big enough for three people) so anyone can sit down. Phil and Fury takes the places, while Natasha and Hill grab the other three presents before taking to the floor.

Clint's eyes widen at the contents. "Hill, fuck, did you get me—"

"—the new compound long distance bow that SHIELD came up with last week that Fury wouldn't let you have? Yup. A graphite epoxy body with a magnesium alloy grip, with a sixty pound string tension and a collapse function. You'll be a kid in a candy store picking the bag guys off with _this_ thing. The arrows that go with it are back at headquarters, with arrowheads that both explode and are just the super boring type. You're used to those two, right? I didn't want to overwhelm you."

"Alright, enough from you motherfuckers," Fury grumbles before Clint can squeal anymore. He grabs up another box. "This one is from me."

Clint takes a deep breath before ripping the all black wrapping paper apart. "Oh, you got me…clothes." He looks up at Fury. "Please tell me it's not a matching trench coat."

Natasha smirks. "I think you'd be pretty hot in that, actually."

Clint rolls his eyes. "Shut up." He holds the clothing up, checking out if—"Oh my god, you didn't!"

Fury raises his good eyebrow. "I did."

He can't stop Clint's squealing this time. He's been wanting a customized SHIELD uniform for about a year now, but Fury's never let him because it "breaches protocol" or something. Hill just sticks with the normal ones, Natasha's is all black (plus the belt with the red hourglass, but that's mostly because the material lets her move better), and now Clint gets a cooler one as well. He's so sick of that stupid SHIELD blue.

"Okay, okay, now mine," Natasha says, shoving her red wrapped one into his hands. "Try not to scream."

Clint wrinkles his nose up as he goes to unwrap it. "That gives me no comfort." When he gets the lid off, he stares. "It's empty."

"Yup. Payback."

He frowns up at her. "For _what_?"

"Because you didn't get _me_ anything."

He rolls his eyes. "Whatever, you never get me anything anyw—"

"Oh balls, what time is it?" Hill suddenly says, looking down at her watch. "Fury, man, we gotta go. We're gonna be late for that one thing I'm not allowed to talk about."

Fury stands swiftly. "Sorry, Barton. You'll have to open Coulson's present without us. I'll see you at work tomorrow." He and Hill are gone in an instant, the door slamming behind them.

Clint's actually sad to see them go. "I wonder how cute he'd look dressed up as Santa Clause."

Coulson actually smirks. "That knowledge is classified."

Clint whips his head around to stare at him, but Clint sets his present into Clint's lap before he can answer. The square box fits in the palm of his hand.

"Oh hey, I gotta shower," Natasha says, jumping up.

Clint wrinkles his nose up. "Wha-shower? You hate my shower! Why ar—"

"Don't wait up!" She disappears into the bathroom, and Clint frowns at the door until the water turns on.

"Geez," he mutters, looking over at Coulson. "You gonna leave, too?"

Coulson actually smiles, which Clint isn't sure if he should be terrified of or be melting into the couch right now. "I don't have any plans. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." He looks down at the box with orange paper, which Clint knows is Coulson's favorite color for a reason he doesn't know. He finds himself opening it very carefully, and he takes a deep breath before lifting the lid off.

He stares for a moment before he realizes what it is: an arrow head.

"It's just a prototype," Coulson says. Clint realizes that he's sitting on his hands. Isn't that a sign for being nervous? That or…bored. Clint's not sure which one he'd rather have. Bored doesn't make him feel any better about Christmas, but a nervous Coulson is…well, Clint doesn't know. He's never seen his handler nervous in his life. Clint decides he would rather have him bored. "The other's are being tested as we speak."

Clint nods. "What is it?"

"It's an arr—"

"I know that part, I meant… It looks mechanical. Not just a point or a bomb. What type is it?"

Coulson smiles again. "There are three different types being made. This is the type I figured you'd like the most: poison. It injects into the bloodstream and burns the victim from the inside out."

Clint's eyes widen. "Cool. What are the others?"

"Not as cool, I'm afraid. Knock out gas and cameras. You know, shooting through things so you can see inside."

Clint snorts. "Watch me run out of arrows and have to use one of those to jab into somebody's eye socket."

"It will be a enthralling anatomy lesson."

Clint smiles, picking it up. "Can I assume it was you who got the three of our friends—well, our friends and Fury—together to get me off my ass?"

Coulson gives an indecipherable hug. "It was Natasha's idea, but I did put it together. About her telling me why you hate Christmas, though… I ordered her to. I'm sorry."

Clint shrugs, looking away. "It's fine." He stops inspecting the arrowhead and puts it back into the box, followed by the lid. "You would have found out anyway."

"That's true."

Clint throws a smile at him again, and as he's turning away to gather up his four presents (which is more than he's gotten in about…oh…lots of years or so), a hand latches onto the side of his face to turn him back. A pair of lips press softly to Clint's, and the hand on his cheek splays out his fingers.

Clint is used to surprises, but this is one that he's nowhere near ready for. It takes a couple of seconds for his brain functions to come back to life, and then he's gripping onto the sides of his suit jacket.

"Couls—" he starts to whisper, but he's cut off:

"Phil." A second hand presses against his other cheek. "My name is Phil."

Clint smiles against his lips and as he's pushed onto his back. "Phil," he whispers.

Both sets of blue eyes drift shut as Phil settles over Clint, and one of Phil's hands pushes through Clint's hair. Clint pulls them even tighter together, unable to get enough. He's wanted this so long; he doesn't even know how it's happened, but it has, and here he is. He bends up one of his knees between Phil's legs, pulling the breathiest of moans from his handlers lips. It's a sound that Clint has never heard before. It's…wow.

Clint suddenly remembers that they're not the only ones in his shitty little apartment. "Natasha," he says, turning his head from the kiss. "She'll—"

"She knows."

Clint looks up at him with a frown. "What?"

"She sees things even better than I do, Clint. You told her what your feelings were almost a year ago, and she simply watched me enough to figure out mine. This was her idea."

Clint smiles. "I am going to get her the best present ever."

The shower water suddenly turns off, and Natasha swings the bathroom door open.

Clint scrambles into a sitting position, but Phil just laughs and rolls onto the side of the couch, continuing to lie down. Clint has heard him laugh before, but…well, not like this. He seems so free.

Natasha smirks. "Who says I never get you anything for Christmas?"

Clint gives her a blinding smile. "You know I love you, right?"

"Mmm, yeah, and you also owe me." She flicks the bathroom light off. "I expect the best present ever by next week." She strides over to the front door and opens it wide. "I bid you goodnight. Clint, I left a new box of condoms on your pillow."

Clint stares after her, but Phil pulls him back down before she even gets the door shut. This time a knee is between _his_ legs, and Phil grins. "Payback."

Clint breathes a laugh, bending down to kiss at his neck. Phil drops his head to the side, allowing Clint a better access as his tongue darts out.

"Almost a year ago, then," Phil says, his voice…good god, his voice actually sounds strained. Clint is never going to look at him the same way again.

"Mmhmm," Clint hums, sucking at a patch of skin. He makes sure that its light enough not to give any hickies. He knows that Phil won't take lightly to any other agents commenting about a red spot on his neck. "Eleven months and…oh, four days?"

"You have it down to the day?"

"It was a stressful time for me."

Phil laughs. "Stressful, huh?"

"Do you have any idea how distracting it is to be in love?"

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he freezes above his handler. Phil is just turning his head to smile at him, though. "I have _ever_ idea how distracting it is."

Clint's breath catches in his throat. "You—?"

Phil nods. "Less than you, though. Six months and nineteen days."

Clint bends down and laughs into the crook of his neck. "It looks like I'm not the only one keeping track."

"I keep track of everything. It wasn't that hard to just add more counters to my train of that."

"Mmm, I bet…" Clint kisses up to Phil's ear, nibbling lightly at the earlobe. He kisses the shell before bringing his teeth to the top rim, reveling in Phil's intensifying pattern of breath. "I want you," he whispers.

Phil grinds his leg up, pulling out a ragged moan from Clint's lungs. "Yeah?" he asks. "How much?"

Clint presses himself back against Phil's leg. "You can't tell?"

Phil smirks. "I certainly can." His hands move to Clint's jeans, undoing the button and zipper.

Clint's hands move to the buttons oh Phil's suit jacket, undoing them swiftly. Phil has another white button-up underneath it, and he quick undoes those ones as well. Clint's hands drag over every inch of his chest and stomach, wanting this more than anything. He's seen Phil shirtless before, when he's changing out of his field uniform (yes, the boring SHILD blue kind), but somehow—_somehow_, after eight years of working together—he's always finished dressing his lower half after the showers. It only started bothering Clint in the last three years or so, when his affection for the man started and began to grow.

"Fuck," he breathes as one of Phil's hands slip into the back of his pants. His other hand stays on the outside of the jeans, and he lowers his leg to bring them even closer together. Clint grinds down against him, his and Phil's moans intermingling.

"Bed?" Phil asks, squeezing against Clint's ass.

"Yeah," Clint breathes, sitting up. He strips off his shirt on the way there, and Phil kicks off his shoes at the same time that he undoes his tie. Both the piece of clothing, the pair of shoes, and the accessory are simple dropped to the floor and Phil presses Clint hard against the wall _beside_ Clint's bedroom door, his hands taking their turn to move anywhere they can over his upper body.

"Have I ever told you," Phil whispers as one of his hands splays its fingers over one of Clint's biceps, "how in love with your arms I am?"

"In a way," Clint says, pulling their hips together more. "You told me I need to stop lifting."

Phil laughs, pulling away to shove Clint into the open bedroom door. Clint walks swiftly backwards until he bumps into his bed (for as rickety and old it is, it's pretty high), wherein Phil presses against him to bend him backwards. He pushes both of Clint's hands up and above his head as his other slips between his legs, kneading him through his jeans. He moans unabashedly into Phil's mouth as he kisses him, and Phil slips his tongue in to drag against the top of his mouth.

"Phil, oh, fuck… Pants. Pants off right now."

Phil pulls Clint back into a standing position and instantly moves to shove his jeans down. Clint steps out of them as soon as they've hit the ground before he kisses Phil again, his hands going to work at his handlers. A moment later they're just in boxers and Phil still has his socks on, but they're fully on the bed with Clint on his back and Phil kneeling above his. Phil tugs down at Clint's boxers, and even at the pull of fabric Clint finds himself moaning. His cock springs free to bounce up and against his stomach when freed, and Clint shoves at Phil's own underwear before anything else. Both men gasp at open contact, and fuck, Clint is _not_ going to come before they even get the lube.

"Phil, I—"

"I want you, Clint," Phil says in an almost growl. "_Now_."

Clint grins. "Lube's in the nightstand." He frowns. "Where are the—?"

"They fell off the bed." Phil swings off and swipes up the box, tossing it to Clint. Clint can't help but just stare at him for a minute, but he quick tears into the thin cardboard as his handler (Clint is never going to be able to think of that word with a straight face again) strips off his socks. He tosses one condom packet onto the nightstand as Phil yanks open the only drawer and pulls out the lube bottle, tossing it beside Clint on the bed before crawling back on.

"I gotta say," Clint says as Phil is moving back over to him. "You look hella weird without your tie on."

Phil smirks, pushing Clint's knees up. "I can tie it around your eyes like a blindfold if you're that uncomfortable

Clint's mouth dries, and he doesn't have time to wet it again and speak before Phil is bending down and sticking his tongue in about four different places that Clint has always wanted it. He's all but writhing, his hands making permanent marks in the sheets, when Phil finally pulls away, reaching over to grab the lube. He slicks three of his fingers, all while smirking down at Clint's face, before he drops his hand down to push inside. Clint drops his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he moans. Phil kisses anywhere that he can reach, being Clint's knees and his inner thighs and his stomach and fuck, his teeth nibbling at his nipples before moving up to suck hard enough that, yeah, Clint is definitely going to have a hicky. Rude.

"Fuck, Phil," Clint says—and no, even he can't deny that it's sort of a whine. "I want you inside of me, _please_."

Phil nods, pulling his fingers away. Clint swings his legs up and around Phil's waist before he can move at all, but Phil just gives a small smile before reaching down to position himself against him.

"Ready?" he asks, glancing up at him.

Clint nods fervently, and Phil pushes in before he even stops. Both men let out incoherent moans, Clint at being filled and Phil at being the one to fill. (Oh god, if Clint didn't feel so good he'd laugh at his own awkward rhyming.) Clint tightens his legs around his waist, pulling him in even further.

Clint doesn't know how long they're moving, but god, it's the best thing he's ever been through. Slicked skin against slicked skin and tongue against tongue and fuck, the stars that explode behind Clint's eyes and the hand on his cock to pump in rhythm with Phil's thrust.

It's too much for both of the men in the end, and Clint comes with a strangled cry of moans and he's pretty sure Phil's name is washed somewhere in there as well. Phil's release washes inside of Clint close behind it, and yeah, Clint's name is _definitely_ somewhere in there with Clint's.

Clint drops his legs as Phil pulls out of him, followed by Clint pulling him tight to lie on top of him before they roll onto their sides. Clint kisses anywhere that he can on Phil's face as their breathing slows, Phil smiling up at him. Clint is only an inch taller than him, but still, it's nice to hold it against him.

When they're breathing right, Clint kisses him hard on the mouth. "I love you," he whispers, pulling away.

Phil gives the most breathtaking smile that Clint has ever seen. "I love you too, Clint. Merry Christmas."

_**-THE END-**_


End file.
